The no-holds-barred tale of a Chicago-based thirty-something living the so-called dream

Once upon a time, two twins were separated at birth. They lived apart for nearly 24 years before being reunited in Nebraska. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the tale of my unofficial (however it could be proven official if we got Maury Povich involved) twin and our tapeworm-fueled shenanigans/future plans.

Here we were in the booming metropolis of Lincoln, Nebraska. As any quality friendship begins these days, we were introduced by a mutual friend at the bar and bonded over vodka-sodas, tequila shots, frog sperm, and the fact that we shared the same ex-boyfriend with a Dorito-tinged skin color that rivaled Snooki’s circa season one of MTV’s the Jersey Shore. It was love at first sight for the two of us twins – well, within reason because twincest…well, that’s just gross.

We only got to know each other for a couple months before he moved to Kansas City for a job offer, but like they always say….distance makes the heart grow fonder – or however that sappy Robin Hood quote goes. If we go more than 24 hours without talking to each other? Well, I’ll let you know what happens if and when it ever happens.

Aside from having a mutual ex, we’ve come to discover that we share a mutual love of emojis, men, alcohol, tapeworms, and Deven Green’s parody of “Welcome to my Home” – a classic YouTube gem if you’ve never seen it. We may or may not be able to quote the entire thing.

Since getting down to your birth weight of five pounds six ounsches is easier said than done, we joke (somewhat seriously) about wanting to find tapeworms to aid in the task. I’d be lying if I said I/we hadn’t researched countries where there are high rates of contraction, black market availability, and foods you can eat that carry a high risk of tapeworm infestation. We’ve even discussed opening a bar together eventually and offering a tapeworm-infused shot – almost like eating the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle, but you’d get skinny. Of course, these shots would be sold at a premium. We’ll be millionaires – especially if we launch this bar in Boystown or WeHo. This is merely step one on our quest for world domination.

But what would a pair of tapeworm-obsessed superheroes on a quest for world domination be without an accident-prone sidekick? Enter the Schabes.

The three of us have an ongoing group text message (thanks to our trusty iPhones) that is frequently comprised of more emojis than actual words. If photos and videos are included into this equation, there would be few words to describe the conversations. Literally.

If anyone were to get ahold of our phones and read these conversations, they’d probably think we’d all lost our minds. From photos of our lunches (or lack thereof) in an attempt to out-healthy each other on our five-pound-six-ounsch quests to scandalous photos sent to/from us by potential/previous friends with benefits, and from to eCards and BluntCards that sum our lives up perfectly to videos of Schabes being pushed around in a trash bin that subsequently tipped over (among other drunken shenanigans)…well, let’s just say there would be a lot of incriminating evidence against the three of us – if they could manage to somehow decipher it amongst all the emojis and our acronyms like LMVO (Laughing My Vageen Off).

So anyways, if my twin doesn’t end up jailed for killing birds with his car on his morning commute (“Bye Birdlicia!”) please stop into our bar in a few years and say hello. Schabes will be slaving away as a hostess, cocktail server, or shot girl. Most likely a shot girl….serving tapeworm shots only of course. She’ll be the one looking like a lollipop with her nice big head and a stick body.

Until then, however, you can find us sitting in our cubicles, cars, and condos laughing until we cry at our inside jokes and future plans. We might not have our tapeworm bodies, but we’ll have abs of steel from laughing at the rate we’re going…you just won’t be able to see them until we find that black market or a quality sushi restaurant.

The modern misadventures of a twentysomething transplant from Nebraska, trying to navigate Chicago. Many gays love meddling with my life, for better and for worse. Fortunately, I'm a less horse-faced version of Carrie Bradshaw, that, unfortunately, never gets any action.